


I must go, uncertain of my fate;

by lucylikestowrite



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:30:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5324012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucylikestowrite/pseuds/lucylikestowrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The eight times the TARDIS visits Jane Austen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [I must go, uncertain of my fate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5646931) by [tea_in_tea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_in_tea/pseuds/tea_in_tea)



> Title from Persuasion. Obviously the only thing in this fic that's a tad meta.

The first time Clara visited Jane with the Doctor, it was by accident. They were aiming for London, but, as usual, they didn't quite manage it.

“When are we?” Clara asked, smoothing down the skirt of a dress that was far too fancy for the fields she saw when she opened the door to the TARDIS.

The Doctor pulled the screen towards him, squinting at it. “1796. Hampshire.”

Clara's eyes lit up, the English teacher in her kicking in. “Hampshire. Late 1700s. Jane Austen. Jane Austen is somewhere out there, and she's just finished the first draft of Pride and Prejudice! Well, it's First Impressions right now, if we’re going to be specific, but the point is, Jane Austen!” she said, her grin growing as she began to bounce slightly on the balls of her feet.

“I'm assuming you wish to meet her?” The Doctor asked.

“Well, obviously,” she said, still smiling widely, “or my name isn't Clara Oswald.”

“I suppose we could drop in…”

“Fantastic! How far away are we? When can we leave? Wait! Don't answer that,” she said, holding up a hand. “I need to change.”

She moved away, pulling at the back of her dress, making her way towards the other period-appropriate dresses that the Doctor had found. “So do you think this one,” she asked, holding up a pink dress against her body, before switching it with a blue one. “Or this one?”

“Blue,” he said, pointing. “But I’m sure you’ll look lovely whatever.”

\--

They arrived at the door of the vicarage that Jane Austen lived in two hours later, more than a bit bedraggled - it had been raining, and the Doctor had insisted they walked, although Clara thought that was perhaps just a ploy to force the Austens’ hands, and wondered whether he had been reading one too many period novels. Before they knocked on the door, Clara stopped, throwing a hand out into the Doctor’s path.

“Are we really just going to barge in on Jane Austen?” she hissed, suddenly apprehensive, all of her previous bravado melted away at the sight of the house in front of her. “Shouldn’t we maybe… send a letter and then wait a little while until we’re invited?”

“Don’t be silly. This is a vicarage. They have to be inviting; Jane is very accommodating.”

“You say that like you’ve met her before.”

“I have,” he said, and then carried on, ignoring the look on Clara’s face. “It was a long time ago. Well, for me, at least. It’s in the future for her. She helped me with a Phoenix. It’s a long story, I don’t remember most of it. But I do remember that she was very helpful. Plus, she can never resist a good story, and what’s more interesting than two handsome strangers turning up on her doorstep in the rain?”

So Clara knocked on the door and when it was opened, it was by a young woman Clara just knew had to be Jane. She stood there, shivering, for a few seconds, intensely aware of a droplet of water making its way down her chest and into her bodice, before unfreezing. She introduced them - herself and her uncle, the Doctor - and Jane, true to what the Doctor said, invited them in, although she seemed rather alarmed by their appearance - mud coating the hem of Clara’s dress, and hair falling away from their faces in wet strands.

Jane invited them into her drawing room, then explained that he rest of her family was away - on holiday or business; Clara can’t quite remember - but that she had stayed. Clara later found out that she had wished to finish her first draft without interruptions.

Jane asked about their journey, seemingly eager to know why these two strangers had deposited themselves on her doorstep, and the Doctor span out some long tale about horses and carriages and lost luggage. Jane listened intently, and Clara watched Jane intently. She could tell that Jane was paying the utmost attention to what the Doctor was saying - but she could also see the hands that Jane has folded seemingly neatly in her lap fidgeting, as though she was eager to write it all down. Eventually the Doctor finished, and Jane turned her head slightly towards Clara.

“Miss Oswald; you have been awfully quiet? Are you sick?” she said, her mouth turning down slightly, and it felt to Clara as if she were truly worried for her.

As if on cue, Clara sneezed. She went to sleep early that night, in the bed of Jane’s sister, and they left early the next morning, Clara mourning the little time they were able to spend at the vicarage, pretences about an urgent need to be in London before the weekend on their lips.

On their way back to the TARDIS, Clara frowned. “Did we have to leave?”

“Yes - you may not have been listening, Clara, what with all of your staring at Jane, but I told her that we were only staying for the night on our way to London.” Clara’s face fell. “But I supposed that doesn’t mean we can’t visit on the way back.”

\--

The second time they visit Jane, it has been two weeks for her, but only two days for Clara and the Doctor - enough time for Clara to recover from the cold she had developed, and more than enough time to make Clara incredibly eager to be back. This time, she was determined to make the most of it.

When they arrived on her doorstep, ostensibly on their way back from Town, Jane seemed more than delighted to see them. Her family were still away, and she had been in dire need of company - which is just what Clara was eager to provide. After a few hours together, Clara was sure they could talk forever, was sure that every dream she ever had as a child, devouring Pride and Prejudice, was coming true.

Jane even showed Clara her draft, and Clara had to restrain herself from commenting, sure that the most celebrated work of literature in the English language must be a fixed point of time, and slightly terrified that the world would explode if she suggested the addition of a comma.

\--

The third time they visit, it had been a few months for both of them, and when they arrived, eager and beaming, it was not Jane that opened the door, but her sister - the rest of the family was back, and when they retired at the end of the day, Jane informed her that there were not enough rooms, that she would be sharing with her sister, and that Clara could take her room.

Clara tried not to stare, slowing her breathing, and lying as still as possible, when Jane came into her room, last thing at night, hair loose down her back, and picked up a book, before leaning down and blowing out the candle on the bedside table, her face dangerously close to Clara's ostensibly sleeping one.

\--

The fourth time, it was midsummer, and they spent the whole day outside under the shade of a tree in the Austens’ garden. Jane wrote, the Doctor read, and Clara tried to read, when she wasn’t getting distracted by something Jane said: a comment she made about her writing, or the weather, or the dress Clara was wearing. A couple of times during the day, Cassandra joined them. Like the rest of the family, she seemed to be used to the visits of the strange couple now, accepting them, readily, when they turned up.

That night, Jane told Clara that Cassandra was ill, told her that she had said that Jane couldn’t possibly share with her - and asked if Clara wouldn’t mind sharing instead.

Clara didn’t say anything for a second, almost feeling as if this was a trick question, as if Jane would tell her off for lack of decorum if she agreed, her mouth opening and closing, leaning up against the wall in a way she hoped seemed casual, then said, “Sure. I mean, yes, of course. That’s perfectly fine.”

That time, it was Jane who went to sleep first, her back turned away from the centre of the bed, hair spreading out across her pillow. When Clara got into the bed, she did it as quietly and softly as possible, trying not to disturb her.

When she woke up in the morning, she opened her eyes Jane’s eyes on her. Neither of them spoke, not then, and not later, not until they were leaving again.

“Hurry back, Doctor, Miss Oswald. I rather think we’re beginning to miss you when you are gone.”

\--

The fifth time, Jane kissed her. It was the middle of the night, and Jane was back sharing with Cassandra. Or she was, until Clara was awoken by the door to the room sliding open, and Jane moving into the room, a shawl draped loosely around her. Clara sat up, wiping sleep and hair out of her eyes, the expression on her face confused.

Jane sat down on the bed, apprehensive, nervous hands weaving and pulling apart a braid in her hair. For a few seconds, or maybe a few minutes, neither of them said anything. Then Clara’s shift slipped, and Jane’s eyes followed the fabric as it fell slightly. Clara moved to pull it back up, but Jane got there first, setting the fabric back in place, her hand lingering near Clara’s collarbone, thumb brushing against her skin.

Clara watched the hand out of the corner of her eye, not breathing.

“You know, Clara Oswald, the first time I ever met you, there was this raindrop, right,” she moved her finger, tracing a path across Clara’s clavicle with her fingertip. “Here. And it wasn't raining any more but your hair was wet and you looked utterly alien. You didn't fit. You were smiling even through your predicament, you were happier than you should have been.”

Clara swallowed, her eyes flicking from the hand on her shoulder to Jane's face. Jane's eyes were wide and earnest, and her lips were pursed.

And then Jane moved her other hand to cup the back of Clara’s neck, and leaned in, slowly, so slowly. And she kissed her. Just once, and for little more than a second, their lips hardly doing more than brushing.

Jane leaned back, clasping her hands together, eyes wild and searching.

Clara just blinked, not entirely sure what just happened.

“I'm sorry, I, I thought-” Jane stuttered, starting to push herself up and away from the bed, before Clara snapped out of her reverie, grabbing her wrist and pulling her back down. “You and the Doctor always seemed a little strange; a little wrong, like you weren't from here, and I thought, maybe, wherever you were from, this would be… allowed. I see I was wrong.” She looked down, her hands, finally subdued, were finally still, and the confidence she had been showing only thirty seconds ago gone,

Clara reached out, her hand tucking a strand of hair behind Jane’s ear, then moved her fingers to lift her chin up, their eyes meeting.

That time, Clara made the move, and the second time was almost as hesitant as the first. But then Jane sighed, relaxing, and Clara felt Jane's eyelashes brush against her face as her eyes fluttered shut. Jane brought her hands back up to Clara’s shoulders, pulling herself in, and Clara moved her hands down to Jane’s waist, fingertips among the hair that hung there.

Jane pressed in, further, her mouth becoming more urgent on Clara’s, and, as Clara’s teeth brush against Jane’s lower lip, a small sound escaped from the back of Jane’s throat. Jane felt Clara smiling against her lips, smirking, almost. So Jane bit back, the surprised sound that emerged from Clara’s mouth more than satisfying enough.

And then a sound from outside broke them apart, hands flying away from each other, and as a light passed the door, their eyes fell, guiltily.

But the light passed as quickly as it came, and Clara felt her face fall, the look on Jane’s face killing her.

“If you're having second thoughts, you don't have to… do this,” she said.

But Jane shook her head, waiting for a second, then kissed Clara lightly one more time, and left.

The next morning, Jane smiled at Clara over breakfast, something in her eyes new. They spent the day together, and then, when night fell, Jane made her way back to Clara’s room. This time, they just slept, and woke up when the sun rose so Jane could leave.

That visit lasted almost a week. In that time, the Doctor left and came back - when he did, Clara went with him, promising to return.

\--

And she did - but the sixth time she was only there for a few days, and when she left it hurt.

\--

The seventh time, she stayed. She stayed for months. Cassandra got tired of sharing, which worked perfectly, because in the daytime they acted perfectly decorously, and at night they were free to share.

In the mornings they woke early, relishing the quiet, their relaxation interspersed with kisses. Most of the time they just lay there, together. Clara would trace lazy circles on Jane’s back, while Jane murmured to herself, writing in her head, rewriting, always writing.

If they wanted to be together in the daylight, they walked, far away from everyone else. They walked in the hills, playing jokes on each other, laughing, running free. And when they were tired, when the wind blew too hard and their cheeks went pink and their hats struggled to stay on their heads, they collapsed in heaps, peppering kisses on each other’s mouths, rejoicing in the feeling of the sun on their faces and the privacy and the possibilities.

One night, almost a year after they met - for Jane, that is. For Clara it had been slightly longer. Or maybe shorter. She wasn’t entirely sure - Clara woke in the middle of the night to see Jane sitting up, her eyes apprehensive again.

“I love you,” she said, when she saw Clara’s eyes open.

Clara reached out a hand, pulling her back under the sheets. “I love you, too.” She paused, intertwining their fingers. “Why did you look so nervous?”

“It still doesn’t feel real. Or allowed. Or right.”

Clara kissed her, their bodies pressing together. “That doesn’t feel right?”

\--

She doesn’t come back an eighth time. The Doctor did. The Doctor came back and told her what Clara did, and she hated her for a while, hated her for leaving and dying and being the hero. And then she hated herself for letting herself fall in love with the absolute worst person. And then she wrote, wrote and wrote and wrote, because Clara loved her writing, and Clara was from the future, Clara was from hundreds of years in the future, and if she wrote, then one day Clara could read her writing again, and sometimes, at night, she is sure she feels Clara smiling down at her in a way only she could.


	2. Chapter 2

She spent the rest of her life without Clara, except suddenly she didn't. One morning she woke up and the Doctor’s final visit was gone from her mind. Except she didn't know that, all she felt was a shift, like something very little but very big has changed.

And then Clara visited again, hurtling back into Jane’s life at full speed. Except this time, she didn't have the Doctor in tow, but a girl, a girl she called Ashildr and who called herself Me, and Clara was there but there was something missing behind her eyes. When she pulled Clara behind a closed door, away from the prying - and undeniably curious - eyes of Ashildr, she realised what was gone; the fingers that she wrapped around Clara’s wrist didn't feel a pulse. Her eyes widened, and Clara shrugged, like it was nothing, pulling Jane in for a kiss, her mouth on Jane’s like she was dying - and when Clara explained, she realised how right she was.

Clara told her everything that night, Jane curled up next to her, their fingers intertwined. She told her how she was supposed to die, how the Doctor saved her and cheated time and death and reality itself, and Jane felt jealous for a moment, before Clara kissed her again, kissed her until her head span and her body felt weak underneath her.

And then she told her how the Doctor sacrificed everything, how she has a time machine and a companion and an infinity of time in between one heartbeat and the next, and how she’s going back to Gallifrey, back to die - but the long way around.

“But the long way around can be as long as I want,” she said. “I can stay with you. For as long as you want me to stay with you. Forever, if you want. Ashildr can wait. She’s waited a billion years. She can wait-”

But she stopped, her face twisting. Jane realised what she was going to say.

“You're from the future, Clara. You know how long I have left.”

Clara paused for a second. “I can't tell you, Jane. But if you want me, I’ll stay with you until then.”

Jane didn't answer, just pulled her in, hands pulling Clara in, tangling in her hair and clinging to her like she was never letting her go again.

\--

When Clara first met Jane, Jane was 21. When Clara returned, promising never to leave again, Jane had just turned 23 - still younger than Clara, and more in love than ever.

In 1802, when Jane was 27, after they moved to Bath, there began to be talk of the mysterious woman that lived with the Austens and never seemed to stray far from the younger Miss Austen’s side. The name Clara was on everyone’s lips, and Jane hated it, so Jane accepted a marriage proposal, determined to make society forget her.

And it works - when Jane rescinds her acceptance the next morning, it is all anyone can talk about, and Clara is forgotten.

In 1804, Jane was finally the same age as Clara, and it breaks Clara’s heart - the knowledge that all she can do is stand still and all Jane can do is move.

In 1805, Jane’s father died. He called her into his room, a few days before his death, his face urgent. As he held on to her hand, he told her that he loved her, that he had come to love her friend Clara like a daughter - and, when she opened her mouth, told her that he knew, that that was why he had left the ministry.

Four years later, they moved to Chawton, away from the prying eyes of society in Bath, and they - the Austens that remained and Clara - retreated into themselves, more solitary, but perfectly happy as they were. Jane wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and at night, she would read what she had written to Clara, her ink-stained fingers trailing mindlessly up and down Clara’s arms, until they both fell asleep, paper discarded, arms wrapped around each other.

When Sense and Sensibility was published, it was Clara who persuaded her, who cheered her on when she was tired, or lost in words. It was a success, and Clara had never seen Jane smile like that, except late at night in her arms. After this came Pride and Prejudice, and Clara was able to see the publication of her favourite book, with the knowledge that it had been her who had sat by Jane as she wrote the last lines, as she edited and picked and pruned and grew the story Clara knew so well from the foundations of the draft she had finished just before she first met Clara.

After that was Mansfield Park, a year later, and the critics ignored it but the public didn't, and Clara could see that that was all Jane needed. After Emma was published, however, Jane’s health began to decline, and when she saw the sadness in Clara’s eyes, Jane knew. So she didn't let it faze her: she kept writing for as long as she could, and Clara stayed by her, always. She stayed with her during the day and she stayed with her at night, and when Jane got especially tired, she would stay with her in bed through the day, talking to fill gaps that Jane couldn't, talking of everything, of the wonders that she’d seen - in space and in Jane’s eyes, and the legend Jane became. Jane would smile as Clara stroked her hair, and when she fell asleep it would be a relief.

Clara went with Cassandra and Henry when they took Jane to Winchester in April 1814, but by then it was too late, and Clara watched as she faded away, something she had always known would happen but hadn't quite accepted.

In her last days, Jane could hardly keep her eyes open, but when she did, only Clara could make her smile. And when she smiled, she talked, told Clara not to mourn her too long, but to publish the books she hadn't managed to, and then to leave, and see more of the worlds she had always described to Jane.

And so she did. When Jane died, it was a punch in the gut, like something bad been ripped away from her, but she didn't shut down like she had with Danny. She couldn't let herself - she owed Jane that at least. Ashildr arrived back almost the day Jane died, 15 years having given her more than enough time to build up her own empire in Regency England - for the second time. Jane stayed long enough to be sure Jane’s remaining books would be published, and then she left, in the middle of the night, sneaking away to a TARDIS she hadn't touched in a decade and a half. And when she left with Ashildr, determined to see just a bit more of the world before going back, she never forgot about Jane, about the life she had built and grown with her, because in the end it was sad, but it was beautiful, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao i was gonna get rid of the major character death thing then i was like. oops. anyway in light of recent events i OBVIOUSLY had to edit this to make a bit less sad is it less sad i can't tell?

**Author's Note:**

> I had to write this to get it out of my head and try to do justice to the greatest potential otp that never was.


End file.
